no secret anymore
by ifonly13
Summary: "Once I had a secret love / that lived within the heart of me / all too soon my secret love / became impatient to be free." :: Eight ways to say "I love you." :: For Morgan, my favorite jetsetter. Happy holidays, chica!
1. Voicemail

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

_For Morgan, my favorite jetsetter. Happy holidays, dear!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ Each chapter is a stand-alone scenario but are connected. You'll see how. All take place season four and on; some in an alternate universe, others within the scope of established episodes. Some chapters are longer, others are short scenes. I'll let you figure out the situation for each of them._

* * *

"_The most important things are the hardest things to say." – Stephen King_

* * *

She shoots him a quiet smile, shyly hiding it behind the fall of her hair as she nods. "Goodnight, Castle," she says before she steps into the elevator. He catches another smile, the first's twin, as the doors slide shut.

He pauses, alone in the bullpen save for LT and the sounds of Gates in her office, rearranging furniture and photos on her desk. It still hurts even after an entire summer of watching the woman set up shop in Montgomery's office. That pain paled in comparison to staring at his phone for hours, waiting for it to ring, for her caller ID to pop up. It never did. But she's back now, not hiding up in her father's cabin despite telling him that she'd call.

He takes a deep breath, taking in the lingering coffee, stale sweat, and the remaining swirl of her shampoo before following to the elevator. The cab ride back downtown to his loft is spent on his phone, finger hovering over her number. Seeing her again has made the words bubble up again. He was able to push them down in the hospital during those five minutes he was able to see her. He kept them out of his mouth on the swingset as she explained herself. He never released them into the air as she pulled on her dark blazer just minutes ago, instead promising her that her wall wouldn't be there forever.

But he could set them free now. Just a press of his thumb against the touch screen, a quick breath, and three words.

No. Not over the phone. If he's going to bare his soul like that again, he's doing it in person.

He unlocks the front door, dropping the keys onto the side table. His daughter is sitting at the dining room table, books spread out around here. She doesn't even turn to look at him.

Wow. He broke a lot of things lately.

First things first.

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over the back of the armchair on his way to the table.

"Hey," he says, leaning on the one clear spot.

She looks up, her pencil slowly stilling on the page of math equations.

"You're right. I do need to grow up," he states as she turns toward him. "But that's why I'm doing what I'm doing. Everything that's happened happened because of me. And I need to be there for her; I owe her that."

Alexis glances down, the tiniest smile flitting over her face as she crosses her arms. "Does she make you happy, Dad?"

It takes him a moment to find words. Because she does make him happy. Happy and frustrated and angry and so fucking in love. "Yeah, she does," he settles on. It encompasses everything.

"Is that enough?"

"It's enough for now." He can wait. Wait as long as she needs.

Alexis nods. "Okay."

He pushes off the table, nudging some of her books as he goes.

"Hey, Dad?" Alexis is smiling, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Don't grow up too much, okay?"

"It's me we're talking about," he teases, touching his lips to her forehead. "Don't stay up too late."

But when he closes the door to the study behind him, he feels the years pass by. He needs to grow up, to close this case for her. If someone puts it to rest, she can move on. To him. To life.

After an hour of staring at the Smart Board, memorizing every detail and praying that he'd make some connection to finally _finish this thing_, his head is spinning with just a little too much whiskey. And his phone is right there, screen dark and tempting, when he moves into his room.

And this time, instead of hesitating, he hits the call button.

She doesn't pick up, probably asleep. It shoots him over to voicemail and he listens as she lets him know that he should leave a message and that she'll get back to him as soon as possible.

Part of him wants to shout that it's a lie. He left a few messages over the summer. Simple things: how was the weather, what did she have for dinner, how she was feeling. Not a single response.

Still, he waits until the phone beeps into the silence of his bedroom.

It rushes out.

"Kate, I love you," he says, only the tiniest slur between the last two words. No mistaking it or taking it back or pretending it was something else. So he says it again, clearer this time, digging himself a deeper hole because he's already in this for good. "I love you."

He hangs up sharply.

And goes to bed in his clothes.

* * *

The next morning, he shows up at exactly eight o'clock at the start of shift. He's wearing the same jeans and black shirt from yesterday as he hands her the cup of coffee without meeting her eyes.

She does let her fingers smooth over his just a moment longer than she normally would.

Neither of them says anything.


	2. Sighed

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

"_They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out." – Stephen King_

* * *

Her head is a little foggy from the wine. She's not drunk; it was only two glasses with dinner. But she was tired from work – the triple homicide of a family can do that – so maybe those two glasses went straight to her head.

And as she sprawls out on the couch, she finds she doesn't mind being the tiniest bit tipsy.

She needed the quiet buzz of alcohol through her veins. The case had stretched out a week and she spent every day looking at the beautiful family on her murder board. That night, she left her paperwork unfinished and rushed home.

She had slipped her shoes off in the doorway and now her bare toes press at the valley between the cushions, hiding the green of her toenails in the warm, brown suede of the couch. A strangely amusing game of peek-a-boo with herself that tickles the bottoms of her feet.

"Beckett, what is so funny?" he asks, leaning over the back of the couch, the dishtowel slung over his shoulder.

She wiggles her toes, not even trying to hide her smile. "Nothing. You done with the dishes yet?"

"Just finished."

"Mm, good," she murmurs. "Wanna help me up then?"

He tosses the towel onto the kitchen counter before coming around the couch, hand held out to her. She stumbles a little, falling against his chest. The splatters of water from the sink are cool against her slightly heated cheek and she nuzzles into his shirt. His hand is wide and strong at the small of her back, keeping her up as he walks toward the bedroom.

"You drunk?"

"Nope," she says with a grin, walking on her toes to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

"Don't believe you," he replies. "Can you brush your teeth without help?"

Beckett pushes off of him, dancing on feet that are a little unsteady. "I'm fine, Castle." And she proves it. Yes, she needs to stand with her shoulder braced against the doorframe as she brushes her teeth and works the tangles out of her hair. He watches from the door, arms crossed over his chest with a smirk gracing his face.

As soon as her hair was combed out, she turned back to him. "See? Fine."

He chuckles, catching her elbows as she steps into him. "'Course you are."

She presses her body up along his, linking her hands behind his neck so that her fingers can tease at the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. Her nose slides slowly across his cheek before her lips settle right over his mouth. Her eyes are open as she just barely lets their lips touch. "I love you," she breathes.

It always takes him by surprise. She doesn't say it as often as he does, the words rarer and harder for her.

But his response always makes them worth it. He lifts her up, his hands under her thighs so that he can spin back to the bed, laying her down gently. Kisses pepper her face, down to her throat and the bit of her collarbone revealed by her draped top. "Love you, too, Beckett," he speaks into her warmed skin.

She lets him undress her, curls onto her side under the thin sheet. He's away at the bureau when she smiles into the pillow. "Love you more."


	3. Romantic Comedy

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

He shifts from one foot to the other outside of her door. The cellophane from the flowers in his arm crinkles loudly. The other hand holds onto the back of the soft beige fur of the teddy bear, the hands of which cradle a heart-shaped box of chocolate.

It's not their first date. It's not even the second or third or fifth.

But this one is going to be important. He can feel it right down to his bones, in his skin.

And damn, he's nervous.

His phone vibrates against his hip. It takes some juggling to get to it without dropping anything.

_You going to knock?_

He grins, using the side of the phone to gently rap on the door. She opens it, already smiling.

"What's all this?" she asks, catching the teddy bear before it falls to the ground.

"Uh," he starts, sidling past her into the apartment. "Isn't this what everyone does in romantic comedies? Flowers, chocolates, cute versions of animals that would kill you in real life? Because that's what I've heard. I don't watch romantic comedies, you know, so I don't exactly know how this goes. But you're a girl. I know the female gender thrives on romantic comedies and stuff like that. I could sing or something. Don't guys do that too?"

She lays a finger over his still-moving mouth. "Shush. Because we both know that you've worn out your DVD of _Pretty Woman_ twice now." She turns over the teddy bear before setting it on the counter. "But why all of this?"

He's unwrapping the cellophane from the flowers as she hands him one of the vases from the cupboard. "No reason." He does see her narrow her eyes as she shrugs into her coat but he tries to ignore it. "You ready to go?"

The ride to the restaurant has him twisting his hands together in his lap. She reaches over, wrapping her fingers around his to stop him, shooting him a glance that asks what's wrong. He shakes his head.

It's only when he fumbles with the silverware at the table, nearly sending the small plate onto the ground along with his fork and knife that her hand rests on his wrist, giving it a not-so-gentle squeeze. "Castle. What's going on?"

With the napkin ring and plate in his hand, he meets her eyes over the table. "I love you," he says in a rush, eyes slamming shut at the end. Maybe if he doesn't see her leave him sitting alone at this table, it'll be a little less painful.

But she takes the plate from his fingers, setting it back on the table gently. "You were going to break a plate over that?"

He opens one eye, finds her smiling softly at him, eyes sparkling with good humor. "Yes?" That smile turns into a laugh that she hides behind her fingers so that only slivers of her grinning mouth is visible to him. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Never," she manages before he pulls at her wrist. He leans his forearm on the table to press his lips to her still smiling ones. "Okay," she sighs. "Maybe a little. Just promise not to smash something when you propose?"

His mouth falls open and this time, the napkin ring does fall onto the ground, rolling away to rest underneath the neighboring table.


	4. Whisper

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

"_But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away." – Stephen King_

* * *

He falls asleep first. He always does.

She can tell exactly when he drops into unconsciousness. His breathing steadies from quick and shallow to deep and smooth. His face relaxes completely, his mouth falling open. His arm around her waist, his hand settled on her hip, slides down, fingertips tickling her stomach before they fall onto the mattress.

She lays next to him now, waiting for that moment.

He's facing away from her tonight but she can still sense his tells.

He was running on adrenaline when she got back from the precinct that evening. He'd gotten past that tough bit in the fifth book and everything was working with him as far as plot and he'd been practically vibrating when he had tugged her up against him by the lapels of her jacket to press a heated kiss to her mouth.

So it takes longer than usual for him to fall asleep tonight. She watches as his breathing slows, his chest rising and falling under the sheets. When his body goes slack, he rolls onto his back. She can see the tiny line of drool from the corner of his mouth and she reaches out to swipe it away, wiping her thumb on the comforter. She shuffles closer, tucking herself into his side. Her fingers slide under the hem of his t-shirt to touch warm skin.

"I love you," she whispers. It's the first time she's said it out loud. Maybe it's a little cowardly, hiding the words in the darkness of the bedroom but it feels good. Letting them be free even if it's just for this short while. Like practice for when she can say it in the daylight, right to his face.

He grunts, shifts so that his head cants toward hers. Her eyes slam shut when he mumbles something unintelligible into her hair. But then he's back to snuffling softly in his sleep and she feels her heart slow back down.

Her lips brush along his neck and she breathes the words again and again.

Practice makes perfect, after all.


	5. Impromptu Dance Party

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

Bon Jovi is playing loudly in the apartment, so loudly that it's almost as if the band is set up in the living room. The place is empty so she turned the volume up as high as she dared, not wanting to entertain a noise disturbance call from his neighbors.

He already texted to say that he was going to be late. Gina and Paula had teamed up against him and were trying to extend the book tour after Christmas and he was fighting it.

She was just going to microwave something for herself, take a shower, and go to bed. He'd wake her up when he got in, too noisy to not drag her from her shallow sleeping. But instead, she started making homemade pizza. There was pre-made dough in one of the drawers of the refrigerator already. She pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top, tied her hair up into a mess of a bun, and runs down to the corner market to get sauce, shredded cheese, and pepperoni.

And came back to the apartment, kicked off her boat shoes, and started making dinner.

The pizza is in the oven and she's working on mixing up a salad in the biggest bowl he's got. There's going to be leftovers but she can bring some to work tomorrow, throw in some chicken or something to make it work for lunch.

She has the large fork that she's using to toss the salad, using it as a stand-in microphone as she sings the lyrics into the tines. She swings around the side of the counter, bowl of salad in one hand to set it on the table. When she spins back, hair falling out of her bun, she hears him through the strains of the chorus.

"I love you."

Kate freezes. She sways toward the counter, catching herself on the warmed granite.

"I mean," he restarts. "I love you when you pretend you're auditioning for America's Got Talent. It's cute."

But it's too late. And he's said it twice now. The words rush along her veins, heating her body enough that she has to press both hands on the surface of the counter to keep herself on her feet. "Yeah?" she whispers. "You mean that?"

"Oh, definitely. You're adorable, singing into that fork."

"No, Castle. The other part. Did you mean that?" she asks, her voice shaking as badly as her arms.

He's silent and she doesn't want to turn around, to see it written across his face that, no, he didn't. Instead, she nods as the timer goes off, giving her an opportunity to move further away from him.

She has her hand on the handle of the oven when his arms circle her waist. "I meant it. All of it." His head drops to her shoulder, pushing through the strands of her hair. His mouth is at her ear. "I love you, Beckett."

Her breath shudders out, her free hand coasting over the back of his wrist. "The pizza's going to burn," she manages to get out past the lump sitting at the bottom of her throat. He lets go and she can feel his eyes on her as she takes the pizza from the oven. "Thought you were going to be late."

"I am," he says, already stealing a pepperoni from the surface of the pizza. "It's eight thirty."

"Oh."

"Listen," he says as he catches her wrist. "I'm sorry. I know you're not ready to -"

She curls her fingers into the fabric of his shirt at his elbows as she pushes up against his chest. Her lips are soft, gentle on his. "Don't be sorry…" she sighs into the corner of his mouth. "Not about that. Not unless you didn't mean it."

"I did mean it," he repeats.

"Then do not apologize," she says firmly. "Okay?"

He smiles carefully as she smoothes her thumb over the line of his jaw, trying to wipe away the lingering worry from his eyes. "Okay. Wanna try Guitar Hero World Tour after dinner? You can sing."

"Only because you can't," she teases, bumping him with her hip as she takes down plates. "You're on."


	6. Something Terrible Happens

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

"_And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it." – Stephen King_

* * *

She's shivering under the sweatpants, the long-sleeved shirt, and the sweatshirt. The wind off of the Hudson bites at her still damp skin. She keeps looking from the sparkling water, lights glancing off the small waves created by the dive team's boat, back to the flash of the ambulances and police cruisers.

When he appears at her side, holding out the cup of coffee with a tiny smile, his hair still dripping from the riverwater, she almost says it. But then he's talking about how there's a positive point to having Alexis interning with the medical examiner's office because she brought him dry clothes and the moment is gone.

She tries to find it again. In the midst of trying to keep the classified information from her real team to fighting with Sophia Turner over their meeting with Blakely, it never really comes back. Especially when the irrational, stupid, jealous part of her hurts after hearing that Castle slept with Sophia while shadowing her. Because then she starts doubting everything and it throws her off-balance for the rest of the afternoon.

He goes home with Alexis after the trip to the morgue, taking a cab as she drives back to her place. She wants to curse herself for being petty in autopsy as she's stuck in traffic. But she wanted to feel like what she and Castle have is special even if neither of them have put words to it. Even that's a lie – he's said the words and she's just too cowardly to return them. But just knowing that he followed another woman, wrote books about her, slept with her, and then left wedges a knot of insecurity into her mind.

She's halfway to her apartment when she takes a sharp right to get to SoHo.

Whether this whole relationship with his muse is his personal M.O. or not, she needs to tell him.

The elevator isn't working when she shows up at his place so she takes the stairs. With each step, she comes up with a reason not to do this. But then each landing, right before starting another climb of uncertainty and doubt, is the one reason to go through with it: she loves him.

She takes the left around the corner to his hall, the sleeve of her sweatshirt curled into her palm. Before she can back out, she knocks lightly on the door.

It's too quiet. It's not late but maybe after nearly drowning in the Hudson, he decided to go straight to bed.

"Beckett?" She turns back, resisting the urge to stuff her hands into the pockets of the sweatshirt. "What do you want?"

"I love you," she says quickly. She steps over the threshold and into his space even as he gapes at her. "I just… We nearly died again and I needed you to know."

His hands are vises around her biceps as he spins her further into the apartment, kicking the door shut with his foot. It echoes loudly in the otherwise silent apartment. Her back hits the doorframe to his bedroom.

"You sure this isn't just the adrenaline and fear speaking?" he whispers brokenly, as if he doesn't want to make her take back the words.

She has time to shake her head once before he tangles his hands in her wildly curling hair to tilt her head back, his lips a gentle pressure against hers. She whimpers, pushing up on her toes to get a better angle for a moment before she presses her palms to his chest and forces him a few steps backwards.

"Castle," she sighs, her eyes closed as her head falls onto the doorjam. "I'm not ready. I can't… I'm still broken. I need to fix it before… this."

He comes back, his stocking feet on either side of her boots. His fingers lace with hers, his lips brushing along her knuckles. "I can wait. I'll wait for you, Beckett. You know that."

Her smile is slow, sadness weighing it down. "I just needed you to know. Okay?"

"Okay," he murmurs. "Stay for dinner?"

"I better not," she says, stepping around him and letting her fingers trail over his before dropping his hand to his side. "I'll see you tomorrow."

And tomorrow, when he comes in to the precinct, he tugs her into the break room with the hand not holding the tray of coffee. The tray goes on the counter so that he can hook a finger in her belt loop, her hips bumping against his.

"You're not Sophia Turner," he says clearly. "You are so much more than she could ever possibly be." He hands her the cup of coffee and ducks his head, his mouth skating over her cheek. "Now let's get this bastard, confidential information or not. Because we make a pretty kick-ass team, right?"

The smile is just a little brighter as she takes a sip of the coffee. "The best."


	7. Write a Letter

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

He's been in meetings all afternoon. He ducked out after lunch, pressing a quick kiss to her lips after checking to make sure the bullpen was clear of onlookers before ducking out.

And damn it, she was lonely. Ryan and Esposito were off re-canvassing neighbors of their suspect to try and break his already shoddy alibi and Gates is downtown at One PP for the Police Commissioner's monthly meeting.

Her finger hovers over the call button on her phone. He'd be thankful for the interruption, more than willing to get out of the room to answer. Instead, she pulls out the legal pad from her top drawer and clicks on a pen.

It takes her the entire rest of shift to write the letter. She keeps crossing lines out, replacing words, repeating herself. The thing is filled with her circling around the real words. The ones that she knows he's been waiting to hear but patient enough to wait out. Waiting for those just like he waited for her.

Except she's not ready to vocalize them. She hasn't said them to anyone and meant it for a long time and she wants this one to be right.

So she writes them out at the very end of the letter. The same three words over and over and over and over. Her hand shakes at the end as she looks at the gradually sloppy letters.

She stuffs the paper into her pocket before she turns her computer off for the night. Her fingers run over the edges on the subway ride to his place. She needs to find somewhere to leave it for him. Somewhere he can read her words until she's ready to say them.

Once she gets into the loft, hesitation and doubt washes over her. Where's she going to leave this so that he sees it but she doesn't watch him read it in front of her? Not on his pillow because she'll be right there when he tugs her down on top of the sheets tonight. Tucking it into his desk drawer could mean that he never finds it; those drawers are a mess of random notes and toys for him to play with instead of writing. She could slide it into one of his suit jackets, the one that he always wears to book signings and he has one coming up this weekend so he'd probably see it then. But she doesn't want him reading it in front of raving fangirls and his publicist so that option is out too.

She sighs, collapsing against the bookshelves in his study as she looks around. Nothing's going to work. It was a stupid idea anyway.

The door opens and she tosses the folded paper onto the coffee table, scrambling to hide it in his copy of the DSM, right with one of his post-it notes. He's already complaining about the meetings as he snags her belt loop to pull her over for a soft kiss, juggling the pizza box in the other hand. She glances back at the book, half-listening to him as he takes down plates.

She's on edge for the rest of the week. Waiting for him to say something. Because she's seen him with the book on mental disorders open on his thigh, a notebook balanced on the other as he scribbles notes down. And the letter isn't anywhere to be found, the crumbled edges no longer peeking out from the top of the pages. But she doesn't mention it as she straddles his hips, knocking the notebook and manual onto the ground and distracting both of them for a good forty-five minutes.

It's his birthday when she finally says it. Everyone has left after the party he threw. Even Alexis is back at her dorm so it's just the two of them. She's laying out across the bed, head propped up on her forearm and he's doing a silly strip tease with the waistband of his boxers that has her half-hiding her smile behind the rumpled covers.

When the waistband snaps out of his hand and hits his hip, she can't stop the snort of laughter. "God, Castle, I love you."

He puts a knee on the bed, right next to her stomach so that she rolls toward him a little. His hand tugs lightly on her hair. "I know. I got your note."

"I needed to tell you somehow. You had to know," she insists, twisting to face him and grabbing his wrist to keep it against her cheek.

"I know. I knew." His lips are soft and gentle as they touch down on hers. "I love you, too."

She laughs, brushing her fingers through his hair. "I know. You wrote me four full-length, best selling love letters."


	8. Deliberately, Joyously

_**no secret anymore**_

* * *

"_That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear." – Stephen King_

* * *

He's done this three times now.

It's the first time it's felt right. The first time that it wasn't as a duty or convenience. The first time that he had to wipe tears off of his cheeks when he saw the bride, ignoring the quiet snickers from their friends in the front row. The first time the priest couldn't finish talking before he was pulling her a few steps closer to kiss her. The first time that his new wife grabbed his ears to bring him back for a second and a third kiss.

The first time that the silver band around his finger hasn't felt like a shackle.

She's hanging up her dress, brushing out the wrinkles that had formed as he had wiggled it off of her, tossing it onto the ground. Her protests about needing to put it on the hanger had died off when his lips peppered kisses along her skin as he revealed each inch.

"You're beautiful," he blurts out, getting up off the bed to wrap his arms around her waist.

"It's the make-up," she teases, zipping the garment bag up. "Gotta go take it all off and brush my teeth."

He follows, his fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear. She swats at him good-naturedly, smiling as she hands over his toothbrush. She's got her own brush in her mouth when he settles a finger under her chin, turning her head to face him.

"What?" she mumbles around the brush.

"I love you," he says, voice as strong and clear as it was hours before during the vows. "I love you so much, Beckett."

His stomach flips when she ducks her head, just the hint of her grin peeking from between the strands of her hair. "I should hope so. You're stuck with me. You know why?"

He hums as she spits out the toothpaste and rinses her mouth, starting to brush his own teeth.

"I don't quit." She takes one of the make-up removal clothes from the container and wipes it over her eyes, getting rid of the mascara and eye shadow. "Especially not on this."

He hides his grin by spitting out the toothpaste.

"Oh. And Castle?" she says as she bumps his butt with her hip. He turns, catching her eye in the mirror before she tugs on his ear to look right into his eyes. "I love you too."

And once again, it's like it's the first time. His heart stutters to a stop. His hands start to sweat. His mouth drops open.

She pushes up on her toes to kiss him, smiling mouth to smiling mouth. "Take me to bed, Mr. Beckett," she murmurs.

He lifts her up, her legs around his waist as he walks back to the bedroom, laughing into her mouth. "As you wish, Mrs. Castle."

* * *

**Note from Logan:** In case anyone was wondering, the bit of lyrics in the summary is from "Calamity Jane," a song titled "Secret Love." The quotes at the beginning of the majority of chapters come from _The Body_ by Stephen King. This series was prompted by Morgan (thejetsetgirl on tumblr) based on an article found in Thought Catalog on December 1, 2012 by R. Mckinley titled "8 Ways to Say I Love You."

I wish you all a happy and bright holiday.


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